‘Do you know what you are?
You are this.
You are that.
You are there.
You are here.
A rabbit.
A hat.
You are small.
You are weak.
You don’t know what you need.
You are nice.
You are neat.
Oh no, look how you bleed.
You are quiet.
You are sweet.
You are shy, oh so shy.
You are modest.
You are broken.
Take my advice to live by.
You don’t want it?
Who are you?
How could you hurt me?
You are selfish.
You’ve changed.
You look sad.
You aren’t free.
You don’t know who you are
Who you are
Without me.’
Lucky you,
You’re so special,
So chosen,
So important,.
.
.
But I will never find out why.
Not until I die.
.
.
Lucky you,
You are so tertiary that you do not need to worry,
you will accept what you are given in the end and
it will make you happy.
Lucky you.
.
.
Lucky you,
If your husband wants a prettier, younger, wife,
You get a prettier, younger, friend to be forever pregnant with.
Or maybe hundreds.
Lucky you.
.
.
Lucky you,
If you don’t want to watch him flirt, play, and be in love with other women,
You can choose
between a lonely Hell, or a lonelier Heaven.
Lucky you.
.
.
.
I’ve never seen an Eastern Bluebird in real life but they make me feel something.
They remind me of the colour palettes that I wish I could live in.
If life were really in that old technicolor, and I ruled the world, there would be a lot of bluebirds.
Bluebirds also remind me of Alice in Wonderland (1951) when Alice lies down in a field of daisies.
Then I remember that I love daisies, and rich green grass.
The daisies and green grass remind me off the linoleum flooring my Great-Grandma Birdie had in one of her guest bedrooms. It was a vibrant green with little white fences and barns.
I slept in that room when we stayed at her house.
To my little self I thought that the blanket on the bed was the most beautiful blanket I’d ever seen.
It was all pink. The happiest, cotton candy pink.
When the light came streaming through the bedroom window in the morning I could have woken up in heaven and not noticed.
I reckon bluebirds, colours, daisy chains, sweet Grandmas, and pretty mornings make me happy because they slow me down a bit.
Slow.
Bright.
Quiet.
Happy.
So happy.
.
.
.
And then I think of little Eastern Bluebirds.
The Culture of Being 